American English
by Nikki Hasselhoff
Summary: Arthur has been in love with Alfred since the Revolutionary War. As he and the American grow closer, he begins to realize that his love may not be as in vain as he'd originally thought.
1. Chapter 1: Page One

Chapter 1: Page One

Arthur Kirkland (a.k.a. England) had never loved anyone like he did Alfred F. Jones, who we know as "America". Of course, he would always remind himself, they _were_ brothers, even if only by the custody he had of the younger country. Alfred, who had always been so little to Arthur (and he himself was small in stature) had grown to be slightly taller than him in a short four-hundred five years. During that time, the Revolutionary War had taken place, severing their brotherly bond and replacing it with a bitter rivalry—with one always trying to be better than the other. That "one" was Arthur.

Alfred had gone off on his own after the War, and Arthur, with the exceptions of World Wars I and II, had watched him from a distance—always commenting, giving advice, but never saying a word out loud. He'd watched as his rival became a mutt-like, "chill", and _very_ well-fed nation. Granted, Arthur himself had become more mixed than he would have liked, but he would never allow himself to become the nation that America was.

Truly, though, deep down, Arthur still felt for Alfred. In the darkness of his heart, he wanted his brother, his friend, his love, back. You can't see in darkness, though.

When Alfred had left, a sadness beyond any country's wildest dreams (even Francis's) had taken hold of Arthur. His heart broke. His willpower broke—everything broke. And everything hurt, too—like white-hot irons had been pressed to every part of him. His devastation surely must've been too much for anyone, even a country, to bear; but, somehow, he managed. Not long after the worst of his depression, a new seed was planted in the darkness of his heart. Quietly, it took root, grew leaves, and, eventually, blossomed. The rivalry lived on, but it was less for guilt than for a need to be close to Alfred. Arthur longed to be with him, but he never showed it. He couldn't ever show his true feelings—not after everything that had happened—not while in the mess of unrequited love.

Arthur continued to host the meetings for the U.N. (United Nations). Alfred, although not always timely, was always at those. Occasionally, Feliciano (Italy) would host a meeting. Arthur would look forward to these, especially, because he didn't have to worry about keeping the other countries (except for Ludwig—Germany) in line. He could pay more attention, instead, to Alfred.

It was at the end of a meeting Arthur had hosted that, as usual, he stayed after. For the first few minutes of his being alone in the room, he organized countless documents. After this, he made his way to the chalkboard and started to erase the ridiculously feminine drawing Wang (China) had made of himself. He wiped out the face, first, and then stopped. Slowly, he reached down and picked up a piece of chalk that was the same color as Alfred's eyes: ocean blue. He attempted to redraw the face in the American's image and failed miserably. Trying to capture his beauty in a picture was like trying to fit everyone from the _Titanic_ into the few available lifeboats that had actually been on the ship. Scowling, he erased the whole of the drawing, but he couldn't help drawing a heart in the corner of the board with the word, "UsUk" written on it. That didn't turn out too badly.

Arthur was in the middle of admiring his work ("That's not too shabby of a job.") when a sweet voice reached his ear from the doorway. "Dude, the meeting's over! You can come out, now."

Totally caught off guard, Arthur dropped the chalk and spun on a dime to see Alfred F. Jones leaning against the doorframe, his usual smile stretched across his face—his eyes sparkling with curiosity and adventure.

"I—well, you see, I—why are you still here?!" Arthur stuttered in a frenzy.

Alfred, however, merely chuckled. "Well, it's not like I have to go anywhere anytime soon."

Arthur had to repress a smile at the sweet sound of Alfred's laughter. He did so by saying, "You lazy Americans. Don't you have better things to do than barge into other people's business?"

Instead of being offended by that comment, Alfred simply laughed, again, saying, "Oh, Britain."

This was the one thing that made Arthur fall even harder for Alfred: His easy-going forgiveness of words that would start a row in his country. After a moment, he asked, his gaze suddenly fixated on the blue chalk he'd dropped, "So, um, where do you plan on going, now?"

"I don't know," Alfred replied, trying for a thoughtful expression, "probably home to play video games or something. Why?"

"Oh, no reason, I—I was just wondering—"

"Oh, Briitaain!" an instantly-recognizable voice called from the hallway outside the room. "Where are you, Love?"

A surprised expression crossed Alfred's face as Francis Bonnefoy (A.K.A. France) barreled into the room, all shimmering glitter. He grabbed Arthur by the arm and said in a rushed French accent: "You have got to come to my party, tonight, Love. Germany won't allow me to invite Italy, Romano won't come without Spain, and Russia, Japan, and China will ruin everything with their inefficient party experience! _S'il vous plaît_*, please come!"

"Let go of me, you bloody git! You didn't even bother to ask America to your stupid party, so why are you running straight to me?!" Arthur said, struggling to release Francis's iron grip on his arm.

Francis froze at the word, "America". "Oh, oui, oui! You're invited, too, Amer—"

But Alfred had already run off, and Arthur couldn't blame him.

"Come on, Britain, please?" Francis begged, appearing about ready to cry. "You're the closest person I have to call a 'friend'!"

Arthur was disgusted. "You _know_ that's a lie, you moron! You and I have always hated each other!"

"Okay, I'm sorry!" the other nation said, barely giving Arthur time to finish his sentence. "Won't you come? Please, please, pleeeeeeeeease?"

Again, Arthur tried to dislodge his spiteful rival from his arm. A struggle ensued, but, finally: "Alright, I'll come to your stupid party—now, let me go!"

*_S'il vous plaît_- French for "please".

Francis perked up and released Arthur's arm. "I knew I could count on you!" he said, just before skipping out the room like a little school girl.

Arthur was alone, again; only, this time, he was dumbfounded by his own stupidity, instead of that of others.

It was seven thirty when Arthur set out for Francis's residence. The sky was already dark, and the stars glittered brightly. The evening itself was cool and quiet, except for the sound of crickets chirping. After a half-hour walk, the ornamental mansion came into view. He quickly reached the gate that led into a garden decorated with marble fountains and red roses. Before the gates were several old-fashioned cars. Guests, both ladies and gentlemen, were accompanying each other into the manor. Arthur huffed, remembering Francis clinging to him and begging for him to come. He may have been the only country here, but he certainly wasn't the only person.

Still, it was a bit of a relief. Spending the evening alone with that whining drunk didn't sound very appealing to Arthur, either.

Upon entering the mansion, Arthur found that Francis had wasted no time in decorating. Formal, festive masks hung from the walls, which were trimmed with gold. Statues lined the hallways, the bowls they held filled with fruit. Flowery incense and the smell of Francis's cooking struck Arthur pleasantly, but the effect was ruined by the smell of alcohol, as well. From a nearby room, Arthur heard classical music playing. This was the room he entered, since its doors were wide open, and that was where all the guests were headed.

Long, white-clothed tables in the room were covered with French delicacies, ranging from Boulett d' Avensnes1 to Café Gourmand2 to Soupe do Poisson3 to Tarte Tatin4 and to every kind of French wine and beer you could think of. Amidst all of these and the guests of the party was the Host of Honor himself: Francis Bonnefoy, wearing a violet suit with a blue rose pinned to his lapel. Arthur stood awkwardly outside the crowd until Francis noticed him. In an instant, his blue eyes lit up, and he sped toward Arthur, taking his hands in both of his own. "Oh, Britain! I'm so happy you could make it! Come, sit with me and enjoy yourself. There is plenty of food and more ladies to go around!"

Francis led Arthur to the V.I.P. table at the head of the room. At first, Arthur was reluctant to touch any of the food or wine before him; but, after talking to the other guests for a while, he felt confident enough to take a few bites and sips here and there. Then, after a longer time, he was eating and drinking like he'd gone to parties every day of his life (which wasn't far off, since he tended to get drunk every time he went to a bar). The more Arthur drank, the less he comprehended what people were saying. It wasn't too long until the world was divided into reflections of itself, and he was having a hard time remembering where he was. He was vaguely aware of Francis speaking to him, and the next thing he knew, he was being lifted by his underarms and carried out of the room.

Before he was out of the room, however, Arthur could've sworn he saw a glint of gold, complimented by blue, and he knew it wasn't Francis. His eyes widened, but his mind was too nulled to make sense of what he was seeing.

Francis led Arthur to an upstairs room that looked suspiciously like a bedroom and locked the door behind them. Francis said something to Arthur that he couldn't comprehend, but the Brit didn't like the devious glint in his rival's eyes. He knew something bad was going to happen, but the world was spinning so fast, and his head was pounding so painfully, this could've all just been a dream.

"Yes, just think it was all a dream," Arthur heard Francis say. Had he been thinking out loud, again? He couldn't remember.

That was when it happened: Arthur felt a cold hand creep under the back of his shirt, while another unbuttoned his front. The instinct that something truly awful was about to happen was screaming at him to get away, but he could barely walk—let alone escape. When the second hand had finished unbuttoning his shirt, it moved downward, and Arthur swore he felt the button of his trousers pop. Wine-scented breath was on his face, then lips as cold as the hands, and the Brit was powerless to stop it.

Just as those hands were going where nobody's but Arthur's own were allowed, the door of the room busted off of its hinges. Francis spun around angrily, yelling something about knocking. Separated from his only means of support, Arthur fell in a heap onto the floor, trying desperately to make sense of all that was happening. He saw Francis wrestling with someone until he was suddenly punched across the face, his nose bending at an awkward angle. The person who threw the punch knelt down to Arthur's level, but the Brit's vision had darkened, either from closing his eyes or passing out. The last thing he remembered was being lifted from around his shoulders and under his knees by gentle, warm hands.

"Dude, _dude_, hey, Britain; c'mon, man, wake up."

Gradually, Arthur's eyes opened. Alfred was there, a look of worry on his face. Arthur was in his own bed, wearing a bathrobe over the clothes he'd had on last night, and something warm and soft was on his forehead.

Alfred's expression brightened when Arthur looked at him. Then, the Brit's attention turned to whatever was on his forehead. He couldn't tell what it was until Alfred took it off for him to see: A hamburger. Arthur would've given the younger country a look of disbelief it his head and stomach didn't hurt so badly.

Thinking of his aching stomach suddenly made Arthur nauseous. He leaped out of bed and raced to the bathroom, losing almost all of the French delicacies he'd had, last night. Using toilet paper to wipe his face, he unsteadily rose to his feet.

"You okay, man?" came Alfred's voice from around the corner of the bathroom door.

Arthur couldn't respond, at the moment. After his sudden dizzy spell from standing up in his current state, he examined the mess of himself in the mirror. Shiny streaks from his running tear ducts were plastered to the edges of his nose and cheekbones. His bangs were stuck to his forehead with sweat. He tried to remember what had happened last night, but his open shirt and trousers and low-hanging underwear (which had all been hidden by the robe) reminded him too quickly. Another tear traced the edge of his nose as he replied, "I don't know," to Alfred's question.


	2. Chapter 2: United Nations

Chapter 2: United Nations

Alfred did the poor Brit the courtesy of playing caretaker, that day: preparing an unhealthy lunch, keeping Arthur hydrated with soda, and taking care of what needed care. Arthur stayed in bed, feeling awful, sleeping, and waking with violent headaches.

When Alfred checked on Arthur around two o' clock, the older country couldn't help asking him, "How did you know to be at the party, last night?"

"Hmm?" Alfred said, giving him a puzzled look. Then, realization dawned in his eyes. "Oh, I knew France was bound to convince you to go, and he always gets all perverted and weird with other countries, regardless of gender. I figured I should go, just to keep an eye on things."

"Oh," said Arthur, his shoulders drooping in disappointment. Alfred had simply been performing a general service, not because it was him he'd been keeping an eye on. He would've dropped the subject, but then, Alfred said, "Hey, man. I know you've felt like crap all day, but do you want to go out for dinner, later? Maybe getting out of the house would do you some good."

Arthur couldn't prevent the grin that spread across his face. "That sounds lovely," he said. "Just, please: no alcohol, this time."

Arthur somehow managed to convince Alfred that eating fast food wasn't the only option for a meal. He ended up being driven in Alfred's car to a small, family-owned restaurant. Regardless, Alfred still ordered a hamburger with fries and a soda.

It was a quaint restaurant, but the situation was pretty awkward for Arthur. The one he'd always had to take care of had been taking care of _him_ all day, and that was after saving him from the most humiliating and terrifying of situations. Making easy conversation was nearly impossible once the waitress had taken their orders and brought their food.

Arthur tried by saying, "Thanks for the help."

Alfred paused just as he was about to take a huge bite of his hamburger. "It's okay. After all: I _am_ the hero."

Another silence elapsed, but Alfred's reply had made it less tense. Neither of them said a word as they ate. After they'd finished and paid the bill, Arthur tried to remain casual as he walked toward Alfred's car, and even more so during the drive back to the older country's house. They didn't talk very much during the drive, either. A rock station on the radio played the only sound in the vehicle.

Once they'd returned to Arthur's home, both he and Alfred knew the American wouldn't be staying any longer. This made the Brit hesitant to step out of the car. "Thanks, again," he said.

"Anytime," Alfred replied.

There was another moment of awkward silence as Arthur collected every bit of courage he had. Then in one motion, he leaned over the center console and planted a kiss on Alfred's cheek. Within the next second, he was out of the car and heading toward the house, not daring to look back.

The next U.N. meeting was in August. Italy would be hosting this one, which was a relief to Arthur—partly because he didn't want to deal with the other countries (especially France), and partly because he was eager to see Alfred, again. They hadn't communicated since Alfred had dropped him off in June, but Arthur hadn't been able to go a minute without thinking about all that had happened. What did Alfred think of him, now? Would he be disgusted with him? Did he still consider them to be brothers, and he was being a perverted creep? Arthur was anxious to find out.

Arthur made his way to the meeting hall. Upon entering the familiar room, he was witness to Germany scolding Italy for bringing a cat to the meeting (as always), China saying something about what "stupid America" did, to Japan, France massaging his bandaged nose, and Canada sitting in his usual, quiet reverie. America had not arrived yet, apparently.

Arthur sat close to the head of the table, between Wang and Feliciano (China and Italy), waiting for Alfred to arrive. He wished the younger country was here, already. The time between their meetings was too much time for him to ponder about what their next meeting would be like. Eventually, Feliciano, with Ludwig (Germany) glaring at him, commenced the meeting. Arthur was tempted to remind him that America hadn't arrived, yet, but he had the feeling that everyone had noticed that.

Arthur didn't hear the beginning of the conversation. He was too preoccupied with this own thoughts: Where was Alfred? This was unusually late, even for him. Had he slept in? Did something happen to him? Was he avoiding Arthur after what he had done…?

"_Britain_," came Ludwig's voice sharply, snapping Arthur out of his thoughts, "what is your input?"

Arthur blinked. Of course, he had no idea what Ludwig had been talking about. "Um, well, I—"

He was saved by the door opening roughly and closing. Alfred was there, panting like he'd just run across the Atlantic. "Sorry, I'm late, dudes. Traffic jams."

"It's not rush hour. Not even in your country," Arthur pointed out.

Alfred ignored him and took a chair. Meanwhile, Ludwig explained to Alfred what had been discussed, so whatever question the German had asked Arthur went unanswered. Alfred didn't look anywhere but at Germany as he spoke. Arthur tried to get his attention using silent tactics-needing to know how the younger country felt about their last meeting. However, Alfred didn't so much as glance at him.

Once Ludwig had finished his explanation and the meeting had commenced, again (this time with China speaking), Arthur watched to see if he could catch Alfred's eye, but the younger country seemed to be, if anything, _avoiding_ his gaze. Arthur felt his palms growing sweaty and a tension in his head increasing to a painful level as the meeting continued. Alfred wouldn't even _look_ at him. He _had_ done something wrong. Arthur had spoiled his chances with the country. His confession had been too early…or too late.

That was when it happened: Alfred's ocean-blue eyes met Arthur's green ones. Any humor that was usually lit up behind Alfred's spectacles was gone, replaced by the same dark seriousness that the older country had only seen back during the Revolutionary War. He'd done it. He'd screwed up.

Alfred's attention returned to China, who was going on a rant about imports and exports and debt. Arthur didn't hear any of it. He was too out of it. It felt like his head was floating in some world far away, somewhere safe and beautiful—somewhere with unicorns and leprechauns and flying mint bunnies.

The meeting didn't last much longer, at least not to Arthur. The older country made his way out to the corridor and started toward the exit, still in a sort of trance—a shield against all the violent emotions welling within him.

He was only a few feet from the door, his hand already extended for the handle, when a voice said from behind, "Hey, England."

Arthur froze, his hand still extended, but his trance temporarily cracked. He felt tears stinging his eyes, making it impossible to see. He didn't want to turn around, to acknowledge Alfred's greeting. Slowly, though, he allowed his hand to drop to his side.

"I was wondering if you'd like to come over to my place, this afternoon," Alfred said simply.

Arthur felt his eyes widen, allowing one tear to fall as the younger country's words sunk in. Surely, he was just hallucinating, again. To be sure, he carefully turned on the spot to find Alfred leaning against the corridor wall, looking totally…_cool_. A warm blush filled Arthur's cheeks.

"Dude, are you okay? You're crying," Alfred pointed out.

Arthur blushed even deeper and quickly wiped his eyes. Then, putting on a pleasant smile, he said, "No, I'm fine, and…that would be lovely."

Alfred flashed him a smile. "Awesome," he said. Then, without warning, he walked toward Arthur, took him by the hand, and led him to the car.

It wasn't a long drive to Alfred's house, which was just as much a mansion as Francis's (except Alfred was _much_ more colorful). In front of the house was a well-tended garden by two servants, one with his shoulder-length, brown hair covered with a white cloth and the other in overalls covered in grass stains.

Upon entering the house, Arthur noticed dark brown, wooden floors covered in white, gold-trimmed rugs. The walls were tan and hung with colorful paintings—most of them depicting war scenes (which surprised Arthur a bit. He didn't think of Alfred as the brooding type), and cut off by tall windows with open, translucent-white curtains. Above, the ceilings held matching, crystal chandeliers.

"Britain, you coming?" came Alfred's voice from a nearby room.

The Brit hadn't even realized he'd stopped walking. He stepped into the dark room that Alfred was in. There was a couch, an HD television, beanbags sprawled across the floor, a DVD player along with several game stations, bookshelves filled with model airplanes, and Alfred waiting for him on the couch.

Alfred handed the older country a rectangular package. In the darkness, it was hard to make out anything other than that it was a movie with the title, _Paranormal_-something.

"I hope you don't mind scary." Alfred said, appearing awfully proud of himself. He snatched the movie back from Arthur's hands before the older country could remind him that—

"C'mon, Britain!" Alfred said, gesturing for Arthur to sit beside him.

"Um, Alfred, don't you think—"

"Relax, it's just a movie. You scared?"

"No, I'm—"

"Good, me neither."

Arthur didn't believe him for a second. He hadn't even put the DVD in, yet, and, even in the dark, he could tell Alfred was shaking. Arthur was trying to remind the younger country that he was terrified of the paranormal.

Arthur took his seat at a respectful distance from Alfred. He waited for him to get his act together as he put the DVD disc in the player. "Okay, Brit. You ready for this? Like, _really_ ready? They say this is the scariest movie of the year…oh, but I'm not scared. I hope you're not. Where's the remote? Oh, it's in my hand. So, are you okay enough for me to start it? 'Cause I—"

"America?" Arthur interrupted.

"Yeah?"

"Just start the movie, already."

Alfred finally started the video. It _was_ a paranormal video. Arthur wondered at Alfred's choice of watching _it_, considering the young country had always been scared of ghosts. Not far into the movie, Alfred was practically strangling a pillow and shaking harder than ever, saying things like, "Whoa, that was creepy," and, "Did you see that, England? Dude?"

Arthur didn't bother to reply. The movie wasn't really all that frightening.

During one of the next "creepy" scenes, Alfred lost it entirely. In a frenzy, he flung himself at Arthur and wrapped his arms tightly around him, almost screaming panicked commentary. Arthur jumped slightly in surprise, not sure how to react. This sort of situation reminded him of before the War, when America was almost a baby country who still referred to England as his big brother. Alfred would come into his room late at night and sleep beside him after having a nightmare.

After a moment, Alfred stopped screaming, but he still clung to Arthur (and he was still shaking). Following pure instinct, Arthur hesitatingly enfolded his arms around the young country. He felt Alfred tense up, and then relax. A warm feeling spread through Arthur has he recalled Alfred's childhood with him. Were they still brothers? Arthur wasn't sure. What he felt for the young country didn't even resemble brotherly love. It was more like…something he couldn't put his finger on….romantic? He wasn't sure.

Arthur also wasn't sure how long he sat there, Alfred in his arms. The moment was so perfect. Arthur wished it would never end.

In his blissful state, the older country almost missed the change in Alfred's breathing. It had become deep and even. The older country saw that he had fallen asleep. Out of courtesy, he removed Alfred's glasses and resisted the urge to do something silly to the sleeping country. He focused on the movie for a while, until he himself fell asleep, too.

Alfred was nowhere to be found in the morning. It took Arthur a moment to remember where he was, and it took him another to notice the note sitting on one of the beanbags before his feet. It was written in Alfred's chicken-scratch for handwriting, and it said:

Gone shopping. Back in a few.

Arthur sighed in exasperation. Last night should've been too good to be true. It certainly felt like a dream. Hence, he couldn't get a grip on how he felt about the whole ordeal. He needed to get out for a while to think. So, standing and brushing the wrinkles out of his clothes, he made his way outside.

_America certainly is an interesting place_, Arthur thought and he walked past the endless, matching houses outside of New York City. _It's like Britain, only commercialized and with a different accent_.

Arthur tried to organize his thoughts and emotions. Obviously, Alfred didn't hate him. He was fairly certain that he didn't think of them as brothers, anymore, so what _did_ Alfred consider them to be? Friends? Maybe the young country was teasing an old man (technically, though, Arthur was stuck in the body of a 23-year-old. Older meant he'd seen more history and time pass). However, he doubted this theory. That was more Francis's way of teasing.

Eventually, Arthur came to a park with a pond surrounded by a few benches and some tall trees. It was on one of these benches that Arthur sat. What was he going to do? He had to know what Alfred thought of him. He knew he should just be grateful that the younger country _didn't_ hate him, but, for some reason, it wasn't enough. These thoughts reminded him of how a little school girl would act, and he couldn't help grimacing at himself.

Arthur must've sat there for longer than he'd thought, because, eventually, Alfred called him on his cell phone: "Dude, where'd you go? I brought breakfast. Didn't you see the note?"

Arthur was a little taken aback that Alfred had bothered to call him. He'd almost been expecting the young country to just forget he'd spent the night. "Yes, I'm on my way," Arthur said into the receiver. "I just had to go out, for a bit."

"Okay, see you soon. Oh, and Arthur—"

The older country froze at the sound of America calling him by his human name.

"Watch out for France."

Arthur blinked, trying to comprehend what had just happened. He remembered saying something like, "Okay, I will," to the phone and hanging up, but the whole walk home consisted of his trying to piece together why Alfred had called him "Arthur" and France by his country name.

The walk back to Alfred's house didn't take nearly as long as Arthur had thought it would. When he reached the front door, it took him half a second to remember to knock. Where were his manners? Surely, Alfred's rudeness wasn't rubbing off on him, already.

The heavy wooden door was answered by one of Alfred's servants, who politely took his coat from him. The servant informed the Brit that Alfred awaited him in the dining room, so Arthur followed the smell of cooking eggs and bacon and the sound of…a tea kettle?

Sure enough, when Arthur entered the kitchen, he saw poor Alfred rushing about, trying to control grease-splattering eggs and bacon and a screaming tea kettle. Arthur quickly took the kettle and moved it to a cool burner on the stove, but just as he was turning off the first burner, a bit of hot bacon grease flung from one of the pans and hit him on his right eyelid.

"Ow!" He cried, backing away from the stove.

"Sorry, Arthur!" Alfred said, turning the bacon's heat down.

There it was, again: Alfred had said his human name. This passing thought had the Brit open both eyes wide, but he quickly closed the right one and said, "I'm fine, I'm fine. It's just a little burn, is all."

Alfred looked over at him, blinked in acknowledgement, and returned to preparing the food. It was only a moment later that the Brit tried to help by setting the table, but it was already set.

Feeling like a _whole lot_of help, Arthur tried to figure out what on _Earth_ Alfred was doing. Why didn't he simply have the servants make breakfast for them? Why had he gone out of his way to prevent the Brit from helping him? Why had he bothered to call Arthur, telling him to come back, in the first place? And, most importantly, why did he keep calling him "Arthur"? It sounded like he'd been calling him by his human name for years.

It was only about a minute later when Alfred declared the food to be ready and made his way to the table, balancing plates of eggs and bacon along his arms.

"Um, America, do you need—"

"No, I got it. Thanks."

Somehow, Alfred managed to set down the food without breaking anything. Then, he went to fetch the kettle from the stove. Arthur watched him carelessly go to grab the kettle in his palms. "America, you might not want to—"

"Yipe!"

The American recoiled as his fingertips touched the boiling-hot tea kettle. Arthur wondered what he could've possibly been thinking. He sighed and said, "America, you need to be more careful. Let me see."

Alfred tried to blow him off with an, "Oh, it's okay—it's just a little burn," but Arthur's look of disbelief caused the younger country to show the Brit his hands, anyway.

They weren't large burns, but they were painful second-degrees.

"Keep your hands under cold water," Arthur said. "Where do you keep your medicines?"

"Upstairs bathroom, third door on the right," Alfred muttered, looking disappointed. About what, though, Arthur wasn't sure.

The Brit made his way to and up the stairs. The second floor was high-ceilinged and spacious, with towering, arched windows, tiled floors, and instruments spread about the room. They were strictly American-born instruments, such as a glass harmonica and a banjo. Arthur was tempted to try them out, since he'd never played either, but now was not the time.

Arthur found the bathroom where Alfred had said it was. He went through the prescriptions under the vanity. The burn cream was placed right at the front of the cabinet. _Strange_, he thought. _Why would this be at the very front?_

Trying not to be too bothered about it, Arthur took the medicine down to the kitchen, where Alfred wasn't running his hands under cold water (he was actually sitting at the kitchen table, a loaded plate before him). Arthur sighed in exasperation and handed him the ointment. He then took the chair opposite the American and poured himself some tea. He also put a bit of bacon and eggs on his plate, which, when he tried them, were actually amazing.

"How is it?" Alfred asked, rubbing the burn cream into his skin.

"Very good, actually," Arthur replied after swallowing a bit of bacon.

Arthur recalled a few of many questions he had for the younger country. Trying not to be too careless, he started, "I noticed the medicine was at the front of your cabinet. Do you burn yourself, often?"

"What?" Alfred said, quickly swallowed his mouthful of eggs and washing it down with a swig of coffee. "Oh, no. I rarely open that cabinet. Maybe one of the servants organized it, that way."

"I see. So why not have the servants make breakfast, then?" Arthur pressed, not believing Alfred's response.

"Well, I…" He sighed. "Honestly, I was hoping…"

Watching him choke on words, Arthur waited expectantly. However, the young country seemed to be giving up on completing his sentence.

"What was that, _Alfred_?"

The American's eyes widened at the use of his human name, but this quickly passed. "I was hoping that, maybe we could go back to the way things used to be."

In an attempt to remain casual, Arthur rested his chin atop his hand. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"Obviously, I'm my own country, now, but I was wondering…uh…maybe we could still call each other…brothers?" Alfred said hesitantly.

Arthur was stunned. One part of him wanted to scream, "Yes!" He was tempted to call him "Little Brother". He almost wanted to go back and start a time where they could be friends, again.

Almost.

This wasn't exactly what he wanted, though. He didn't want to think of Alfred as family. "No." The word slipped. "No, I can't." He barely understood why he was saying it, but he knew it was right. "I can't do that, America. I'm sorry."

Alfred didn't look surprised or sad or angry. In fact, he looked like he'd been expecting this answer. "Can I ask why?" he said.

Arthur stopped, feeling the blood slowly heating up his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He stuttered a bit, trying to come up with an explanation without outwardly lying to the younger country. When he found he couldn't make out a whole sentence, he stood, swallowed his last gulp of tea, and formed the sentences, "Thank you for breakfast and letting me come over." He reached the door and took his coat. "I'm afraid I must take my leave. Goodbye, America."

Suddenly, in a quiet voice that sent goose bumps through Arthur's body, Alfred said, "You still haven't answered my question."

His voice was close. _Really_ close. Arthur could feel hot breath on the back of his neck. A skin-crawling sensation rippled through him at the feeling. Carefully, he turned to see Alfred standing with barely and inch between them, his arms stretched over his shoulders, locking the smaller country into place.

The close proximity made Arthur a bit nervous, and, yet, he didn't mind it, either. Knowing now that there was no way to get out of Alfred's question, he said, "I…I can't think of you much as a brother, anymore. I—"

He was cut short by Alfred's crooked smile. Arthur felt his cheeks, ears, and neck heating up. It was obvious that the bigger country knew exactly what he was going to say and was just waiting for him to say it out loud.

"Go on," the younger country said. "Say it."

Suddenly, a thought occurred to Arthur: Alfred knew exactly what he was about to say, but he wasn't even _trying_to keep his distance. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying eliminating any space that may have been between them. Shouldn't Alfred have been disgusted with him? Or maybe…maybe he was just teasing his former sibling.

These thoughts really discouraged the smaller country from saying any more. He turned away his head, still incapable of escape or the desire to, but also unwilling to answer Alfred's pressing question.

"Arthur, look at me," Alfred whispered.

The Brit willed himself to turn his head back toward the taller country, and that was when their lips touched, swift and sweet—then again, deeper and more daring. Arthur would've been questioning himself a thousand times over it he could think straight. All he knew was those lips were so soft and so warm.

It was such a shame when they pulled away. His mind returned, causing him to feel slightly embarrassed with the way he felt. Then, his mind taking a second to process the words, he heard Alfred say, "I love you, Arthur."


	3. Chapter 3: Trouble in Paradise

Chapter 3: Trouble in Paradise

Barely a week had passed before Arthur heard from Alfred, again. He received the letter while partaking in his morning tea and reading a novel. All that was written on the note were eight words:

Central Park. 9 o' clock.

I'll be waiting.

Whether or not the two countries were lovers was still uncertain. However, it was obvious that both of them had madly fallen for each other. They couldn't just live together, though, could they? After all, they had their countries to look out for.

Arthur was already at Central Park by eight-thirty. Alfred was there, as well. When they saw each other, Arthur blushed and looked down out his shoes, hoping nobody around them would think him strange. Alfred, on the other hand, cockily stepped toward him and took his hand; and, just like that, they started walking.

"Alfred, where are we going?" the Brit asked.

The American smiled at him. "Sight-seeing," he said.

Alfred first showed Arthur how to find his way through New York City, which he said was crucial if you didn't want to get caught in the worst parts of town. He then showed him important landmarks, including the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty, and, in turn, how Americanized the city had become since the Brit had last been here.

When they had both seen enough of NYC, Alfred informed Arthur, "I've booked us a room at a four-star. I think you'll like it."

This information would've made the Englishman suddenly break out in sweat if the air wasn't so chilly.

The hotel really was nice, in formal American style. Fountains sprayed in fabulous patterns and light-works, and the hotel patio was lit up by lights hanging from a tall overhang. The place was actually fairly decent.

Alfred checked them in and led them to their room. Strangely enough, a couple bags of luggage had already been brought to the room. Alfred seemed to have been awfully prepared for this.

"Didn't the gentleman at the front desk say there was a spa of some sort, here?" Arthur asked after searching through the contents of the luggage, "Because that's where I'm going."

Turning away from Alfred, the Brit prepared to depart, removing this coat and shirt and pulling on a white, linen robe. He was still too proud (and too timid) to remove his trousers in front of the younger country. He could sense the American watching him as he left, but, somehow, he knew he wouldn't follow.

The spa baths were separate from each other—each in their own Japanese-style room. Arthur was grateful for the solitude. He needed to be alone, right now. It would help him think.

The water was burning-hot, at first, but it didn't take long for the Brit's nerves to adjust. Soon, he was in the water up to his chin.

Why did Alfred bring him here? He wondered. Was he hoping for some kind of romantic interlude? Arthur wasn't sure. He didn't even know what kind of love this was. They _were_ countries, after all. Getting caught up in a love affair was the last thing either of them needed. Of course, it was too late to remind himself of that.

There was another matter at hand: What would Arthur do when he got back to the hotel room? Maybe he'd be able to weasel his way out of any romance, tonight—not that it didn't sound appeasing, just that he wasn't sure he could afford to be swept away.

After a long while, Arthur stepped out of the bath, pulling his robe around himself, taking his clothes, and heading back toward the room. He would have to take things as they came, but he would try to avoid romance, and that was all that mattered.

When he returned to the room, the sound of spraying water told Arthur that the American was in the shower. Taking advantage of the privacy, he dug through the suitcase prepared for him and pulled on an undershirt and boxers. He then buried himself under the bed covers, trying his best to gain unobtainable sleep.

Just when Arthur was somewhat less conscious, he heard a murmur in his ear: "Do I at least get a goodnight kiss?"

Arthur opened his eyes to see Alfred sitting on the other side of the bed. He didn't seem expectant or disappointed—just casual, easygoing. Arthur saw again the reason why he was so in love with the younger country: Because of his nature.

"I suppose…one kiss couldn't hurt," the Brit said, more to himself than to Alfred.

Arthur sat up as Alfred leaned in. Their lips touched—once, twice, countless times. Arthur could feel his resolve slipping as those lips planted themselves all over his face, and then his body. Then, the hands—hands that he longed to be touched by more and more. The Brit felt his clothes slip into awkward angles, and both he and the American were coated in sweat. It felt so much like a dream. Arthur never would've imagined what it would be like to be swept away by the warmth in Alfred's body. It seemed too good to be true.

The room was dark at three in the morning, with Alfred holding Arthur to his slightly moist chest. Arthur could only hear the sounds of Alfred's deep breathing and his heartbeat. He could only feel the humid heat enwrapping his body. A sense of security set the Brit's mind at peace. Alfred was always going to be there for him. He would still hold him like this and make him feel this way. After all: He was the hero.

"Hey, Arthur," Alfred said that morning over breakfast. "Do you remember what you wanted to ask me at the meeting before last?"

Arthur blinked. He couldn't recall what he'd wanted to ask. He searched his mind, trying to remember that meeting. It was unusually fuzzy, and that made him remember: He'd gone to Francis's party, that night, but what had he wanted to ask Alfred?

"I recall the day, but…when exactly did I try to ask?" the Brit said, poking the fork in his hand at the potatoes on his plate.

"It was before France ran in and begged you to come to his party," Alfred replied. "Remember?"

Then, it clicked in his mind. The request was so childish, but that didn't matter very much, anymore. "I was only wondering if…if you'd like to come to my house for the evening. I suppose it's too late, now," he said, trying for a light-hearted chuckle.

"No," Alfred said, obviously not taking the request as a joke. "I think that'd be great. We can head to your place after we're done, here."

Arthur was a little surprised that the younger country had actually taken his request seriously. The American really was more considerate than he gave him credit for. Arthur couldn't help feeling…appreciated.

Alfred was willing to walk back to Arthur's house. The American seemed different during the trip—his brow heavier, his eyes less compassionate and comical. Arthur knew why. He could feel it, too. They'd both gone back to being countries in order to quickly span the distance between their two homes.

Fortunately, that didn't last very long. When they arrived at Arthur's house, Alfred's and the Brit's hearts both felt lighter. Being a country was a responsibility they had to accept, but being human was so much easier.

Arthur let them in through the front door. The house was a cozy place near the Thames River, several miles outside of London. It wasn't fancy, in the Brit's opinion, but it was still in good taste. A couple of servants and a gardener monitored the house and kept it while he was away. Arthur and Alfred were greeted with dinner, but the younger country had taken him out to eat in the city, earlier. Still, the older did ask for scones, tea, and coffee.

Arthur took a place on the loveseat while Alfred crashed on the couch, saying things like, "Well, that was fun," and, "Nice place you got, here."

Arthur grinned briefly at his praise, but something was still bothering him. Apparently, Alfred could tell, because he asked, "What's on your mind, Arthur?"

The Brit looked up, pulled away from his thoughts. "Oh, nothing. I was just wondering…we are lovers now, I presume?"

"Yeah, I guess," Alfred replied. "Why?"

"Well, don't lovers usually…live together?" Arthur said, hesitantly.

Alfred grinned, stood up, and took the space beside Arthur on the loveseat. Then, he said, "Only if you want to."

Alfred went silent after these words. Arthur sensed that the younger country was awaiting his answer. Once again, the Brit was at a loss for words, so he spoke in the only way he could: turning a shade of pink, he allowed himself to lean against the taller country's chest. The American wrapped his arm around him and said, "Alright, then."

At that moment, a servant brought in the drinks and scones. Upon seeing Alfred and Arthur, he raised an eyebrow. Arthur was ashamed later that his first instinct would've been to fling out of Alfred's arms and cry, "This isn't what it looks like!"

Fortunately, all he actually did was turn a deeper shade of red. Then, as if in response to the servant's disbelief, Alfred pulled Arthur closer. The servant set down the platter on the low table and left the room without a word.

"What did you just do?" Arthur asked, annoyance showing through in his tone.

"Just assuring your servants that we're together," Alfred said, too lightheartedly.

The Brit was stunned. "What the hell? You idiot! What on Earth makes you feel the need to assert something like that?" he cried, practically steaming.

To his surprise, Alfred didn't just shrug that off like he'd hoped he would. The American actually released the hold he had on the Brit. "What's the big deal?"

Something in the taller country's tone made Arthur regret saying anything. Slowly, he sat up and, not able to meet Alfred's inquiring gaze, said, "I just mean…we're both men, and it might be…awkward for the servants, and…it's…"

Obviously unable to say anymore, Alfred finished for him: "Embarrassing," he said emotionlessly. "Two guys being in a relationship is weird and wrong. I get it."

And, with that, Alfred stood and started toward the door, Arthur felt all the color in his cheeks drain in an instant. For half a second, he was frozen in shock. What had just happened?

Thankfully, he snapped out of it and ran toward the door, crying, "Alfred!"

The younger country didn't stop until Arthur grabbed him by the back of his coat. Still, Alfred didn't turn around as Arthur spoke: "Alfred, I don't think it's wrong in the slightest. I've just never been in this kind of relationship, before. I'm sorry. Will you please turn around, now?"

Slowly, Alfred turned around, his head lowered so his bangs covered his eyes. He took steps toward Arthur, backing the smaller country against a wall. One of his hands was placed on the wall beside Arthur's head. The other hung limply at his side.

Then, Alfred _chuckled_.

"Wha-what's so damn funny?" Arthur stuttered, suddenly a bit intimidated.

The limp hand at Alfred's side was raised. Its fingers were colder than usual as they ran against the skin of Arthur's neck and jaw. Alfred teased him by the collarbone, the chest and abdomen, and even the line of his trousers. A shaking feeling spread through Arthur at every stroke. He almost thought Alfred was going to sweep him away, again—right then and there, and he would've been stupid enough to allow it.

But, instead, Alfred's hand fell, again. "For someone who's so humiliated to be in a relationship with a guy, you sure do like it when I touch you," he said, stepping back and heading towards the door. Then, without looking back, the younger country stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

At the last moment, Arthur collapsed, tears steadily streaming from his eyes as he said Alfred's name over and over again, just so that, even if he died, he would never, ever forget it.


	4. Chapter 4: In Sickness and In Health

Chapter 4: In Sickness and In Health

Arthur wasn't sure how many times he called Alfred, that night. At three in the morning, he was forced to fall asleep by his own drowsiness. Before he fell unconscious, however, he decided he would visit Alfred and do whatever it took to convince the younger country of how dreadfully sorry he was, the next day.

Arthur couldn't help but laugh at himself. What kind of man was he—running and crying to someone who's only confessions of love were three words and a few kisses? How stupidly desperate could he be?

Very, apparently.

He was out of bed only an hour later. He quickly prepared to depart, and then an idea struck him: He made his way down to the garden, a pair of sheaths in one hand and his pride in the other. Picking out the most beautiful flowers of the lot, the blue roses, he cut them off by their stems and went back inside.

Another hour later, the Brit arrived at Alfred's house. At first, he stood outside the property line, firming his resolve and tossing away any stupid pride he might've had left. Then, he pressed his finger to the doorbell. The servant with long, brown hair (and blue eyes) appeared. He quickly glanced at the flowers in Arthur's hand, and then he led the Brit inside, where the guest took a seat on the couch in the massive living room.

For a moment, Arthur waited. The servant didn't make a move to fetch anyone, and Arthur realized he still hadn't requested to meet with a specific person.

"Alfred, please. I need to speak to him."

"I know, sir," the servant replied. "I'm just curious: Mr. America seemed awfully upset, when he came home, last night. May I ask what happened?"

Arthur's instinctive reaction usually would've been to tell the pesky servant to go away—but, looking into those blue eyes that reminded him so much of Alfred, he was tempted to tell him everything. He wanted help and advice, and this person seemed like the type who could give it.

"Alfred and I…left off on bad terms. I've come to apologize," Arthur said carefully.

"I'll go fetch him, then," the servant said, making his way toward a hallway that led off from the room. Before he disappeared around the corner, though, he said, "You know, don't tell Mr. America I said this, but I heard him talking in his sleep, last night. He kept repeating someone's name: Arthur. Do you have any idea who that might be?"

This fact surprised the Brit. From what he knew, Alfred was usually a "dead" sleeper. The fact that he was actually restless enough to talk in his sleep was a shock all on its own. And then, to top that, he was saying _Arthur's_ name? Had he been dreaming about him? Arthur couldn't help wondering what the dream had been about.

"Sir?"

The servant's voice reminded Arthur of the question he still hadn't answered. "No," he lied. "I don't know anyone named 'Arthur'."

The servant grinned in a way that said he didn't believe a word of what the Brit had just said. "Alright, then. I'll go fetch Mr. America, for you."

For a few minutes, Arthur was left with only the company of his thoughts. American servants could certainly be nosy, but, at least in this one's case, they didn't seem to be very judgmental. In fact, it was almost pleasant making conversation with this one.

Still, Arthur was worried: what would Alfred say when he saw him? Would he say anything at all? Would he still be angry with him?

Arthur prepared for the worst.

It was then that Alfred appeared, followed by the servant. He appeared to have just woken up: his clothes were fresh with first-use, his hair was messy, and his eyes had a groggy light to them.

Alfred took a seat in the armchair opposite of Arthur as he requested coffee from his servant, who scurried off to prepare it. He then seemed to have trouble trying to decide where to place his eyes, so he just stared into space—or, at least, not at Arthur.

_He is so immature_, Arthur thought, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Still, this immature country was mad at him, and that mattered. Some of Arthur's courage melted away at this, and his gaze turned to the roses in his hands as he tried speaking: "I-I'm really sorry, A-America. I did something stupid. I'm not embarrassed—"

"What did you just call me?" Alfred asked, suddenly, looking at Arthur for the first time. His expression was surprised.

"…America," Britain repeated.

Alfred stared at him, eyes wide. Arthur gazed right back unhesitatingly. After a moment, the American's gaze lowered. "I'm sorry," he murmured.

"For what?" asked Arthur.

"I've been such a jerk. You've been trying so hard to say how sorry you are for what you did, and I've been doing nothing but treating you like crap and…disrespecting you. I'm sorry."

Arthur was astonished. It hadn't even occurred to him what a jerk Alfred had been. He'd been so love-struck, he'd only seen what _he _had done wrong. For the first time, he felt a twinge of anger toward the younger country. How could he be so stupid?

Then, looking into Alfred's ocean-blue eyes, he felt his anger wash away. The younger country had acknowledged his own angst before Arthur had even had the chance to point it out.

Standing, Arthur covered the short distance between them and presented Alfred with the bouquet of roses. The American looked at him, puzzled, but Arthur's mouth was a hard line of defiance. Still, the Brit managed to say, "It's alright. We were both stupid."

The American grinned and took the flowers. Seeing that smiled filled Arthur with relief. The Brit's hand went to the young country's head, and he did something silly—such as ruffling his hair. He then parted those golden bangs and, leaning over, planted a kiss on Alfred's unusually warm forehead. This worried him, a bit. He pulled away and placed a hand on the American's forehead. "You're warm," he said.

"That's what she said," Alfred snickered.

"Ugh! No, you git! You know that's not what I meant!"

"Relax, it's just a cold. I'll survive," the American said, still giggling like the gutter-brained kid he was.

"It's not just about survival, you twit. You should rest and try to get better."

At that time, the servant returned, holding a saucer with a coffee cup on it. He set it on the end table, and, before leaving, Arthur saw him grinning at him. For some reason, the Brit couldn't resist smiling back.

The flowers were placed in a crystal-glass vase on the kitchen table by the servant. Arthur managed to convince Alfred to get bed-rest. Meanwhile, Arthur took up the role of caretaker—an appropriate evening of the score for that role. For the most part, he left the younger country alone, not wanting to get sick, himself. The times he did visit to deliver food or water, Alfred was sleeping like he hadn't done so in days.

During one of his visits, Arthur quickly became tempted to plant a kiss on that sweet face, even more carefree than Alfred appeared to be when awake. However, Arthur knew this passing notion was ridiculous. Now was neither the time nor place.

He was just about to step out, when he heard America's voice call him back: "Arthur?"

The Brit spun back around to face him. "Yes?"

The look that Alfred was giving him made Arthur turn burning-red. Did Alfred honestly believe he looked sexy like that? Rolled over on his side with his head resting against his hand like that? Okay, maybe he did, but Arthur still thought it was rude.

"Wha-what the hell do you think you're doing?" Arthur cried. "Do you have any idea how ridiculous you look-?"

Alfred, however, merely chuckled. "I just wanted to thank you for all you've done for me."

Arthur stopped, feeling his embarrassment ebb. "I—well, you're welcome."

Alfred really did look cute like that, but Arthur stepped out of the room before the temptation to kiss him took over.

When Arthur went to check on Alfred, that evening, the younger country looked worse than ever. He was sleeping, but he was sweaty and white as a ghost. He was also tossing in his sleep and muttering words too softly for Arthur to hear until he came close. He was saying the same three words, over and over—like a stuck record player: "England, I'm sorry."

Arthur frowned. The way Alfred said those words sounded so desperate. They reminded him or an event that took place long ago, but they weren't the same words.

"Don't go," Alfred mumbled.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. The younger country would probably be mortified if he told him what kinds of things he said in his sleep. Still, some part of Arthur made him step toward Alfred and sit on the edge of the bed. The American didn't stir at his presence until the Brit touched his shoulder.

Alfred woke with a start, making Arthur jump. "Good grief, it's only me. Calm the hell down."

"Oh, sorry," Alfred replied, rubbing his eyes. "What's up? What time is it?"

"You were talking in your sleep," Arthur said. "May I ask what you were dreaming about?" Though, he had the feeling he already knew.

"Oh, um, it was nothing," Alfred said, trying to blow it off with a sleepy smile.

"Alfred," Arthur said sternly, "was it the War?"

The American's smile immediately faded. He looked away.

"Alfred…it's okay," the Brit said, carefully turning Alfred's head back toward him with a finger under his chin. "We had a rough past. Look where we are, now. I never would've thought you and I would've ended up this way, but we have. Be happy."

Then, before Arthur could stop him, Alfred landed a kiss on his lips.

"Idiot! You're going to end up making me ill, too!" Arthur said, pushing Alfred away from him.

Alfred smirked. "Then I guess we'll both need bed-rest," he said evilly.

"Git," Arthur said, standing up and making his way out of the room. Trying not to think about what the gutter-brained kid had just said, he realized he himself had a hard time taking his advice and letting go of the past.


	5. Chapter 5: Anywhere

Chapter 5: Anywhere

_Alfred said we would be living together_, Arthur thought the next morning.

The thought struck him when he woke up on the sofa in Alfred's living room. Somebody, probably a servant, had laid a blanket over him sometime during the night. Arthur got up and went to check on Alfred. He found him still sleeping, so that left the Brit with time to think. Where exactly did the American have in mind for them to live?

Arthur sighed in exasperation. Even though he and Alfred could be together as humans, that didn't change the fact that they were still countries. How long could this go on? What if this love had been doomed from the start, and it was all just going to end, soon?

This thought was seriously discouraging to Arthur. He made his way to the guest bathroom and attempted to tame his messy hair with a brush left on the vanity. He remembered something he had said to France, once: "You need to learn to deal with and accept your failures." Maybe it was time for him to do the same.

After properly washing up and preparing for the day, Arthur made his way down to the kitchen for breakfast. The servants were busy setting the table and preparing food and coffee. Alfred still wasn't out of bed yet, apparently.

Arthur's thought was interrupted by the brown-haired servant handing him a saucer with a cup of black tea and a few packets of sugar and honey on the side.

"I know it's not much," the servant admitted as Arthur took the saucer. "I was just wondering if I could borrow a few minutes of your time, sir."

Arthur blinked curiously at this odd request. However, there didn't appear to be any mischief in the servant's blue eyes.

"I suppose," Arthur said.

The servant led him into the garden behind the house. The sun was still rising, and the air was still cool.

"I can't make any assumptions about your relationship with Mr. America," the servant said, inviting Arthur to sit on a bench at the edge of the lawn, and then sitting beside him, "but I just wanted to say that I've known him for a long time. He makes mistakes and some wrong decisions, but when his mind fails, he always follows his heart—and that's never failed him."

Arthur waited for the man to continue, not sure what he was getting at.

"Maybe…if you did the same," the servant continued, "I would have the pleasure of seeing you smile more often. I'm sure Mr. America means a lot to you."

The servant grinned as Arthur let those words sink in. Follow his heart? The Brit hadn't dared to _trust_ it since the War. Still, in all this conflict, was that really the answer?

"Thank you," Arthur found himself saying, standing up and turning toward the house. "I'll…I'll take it into consideration."

And with that, he walked back inside to meet his lover.

"America?"

The younger country, who was sitting with a coffee mug at the kitchen table, looked surprised to be called by his nation name. A worried expression crossed his face.

"It's alright," Arthur said. "I just wanted to talk to you for a moment." He sat down at the table.

"What's up?" Alfred asked.

"I must admit, I've been speaking with your servant. He's given me some good advice. I've decided…I want to stay with you, Alfred." He felt himself blushing hard. "I-I love you, and I want to stay with you."

Alfred's face curled in a huge smile. Then, the younger country leaned across the table and planted a firm kiss on Arthur's lips. The Brit pressed back, but in a gentler manner. Arthur then realized that this really _wasn't_ the Revolutionary War, anymore. He _was_ able to follow his own advice. He was here, now—and, on top of that, Alfred loved him back. He'd just proven it.

Arthur pulled away for a moment. "So, do you have any idea of where we're going to live?"

Alfred smiled and said: "Anywhere. As long as it's with you."


End file.
